"The Merciful Father blesses us?"
Erika spoke first, breaking the Blue-clad's uncomfortable, silent appraisal. The words slipped from his lips almost without thought, like a mechanical response repeated countless times in the corridor—less a greeting than a clumsy attempt at self-defense, using familiar ritual to shield himself from an unfamiliar gaze.
The young Blue-clad did hear it. His eyes lingered for a brief moment on Erika's moving lips. A flicker of something elusive passed through his pale blue gaze—amusement, perhaps, or another data point added to an ongoing assessment.
But he offered no response in accordance with "etiquette."No smile.No return greeting.Not even a nod.
He simply continued to look—quietly, thoroughly—with that smiling yet utterly warmthless gaze, appraising Erika from head to toe as if inspecting an object: its condition, its wear, its potential malleability.His eyes passed over the disheveled hair, the pallid face, the stain at the neck, the restraint garment, the hollow right sleeve—finally settling on the still-functional left hand, now unconsciously clenched around the wheelchair's armrest.
This complete disregard made Erika even more uneasy, stirring a deeper sense of unease than when facing the black-clad figures.Their silence had been a cold barrier.This Blue-clad's silence was something else entirely—an interested, condescending dismissal, as though the entire discourse of "The Merciful Father blesses us" simply did not apply here… or as though Erika himself did not qualify for that kind of acknowledgment.
Just then, the sister who had been quietly following behind—the one who cared for Erika—stepped forward half a pace at precisely the right moment. Her voice was soft, but clear.
"Allow me, Lord Lynus."
She spoke the Blue-clad's name with respect, though her movement carried a trace of quiet, almost imperceptible insistence.
One of her hands was already firmly gripping the wheelchair's handles. The other lifted slightly, hovering in midair, palm turned toward Lynus.
Erika saw that the young Blue-clad—Lord Lynus—finally shifted his gaze away from him and toward the sister.
He waved a hand with casual ease."Fine, Sela." He spoke her name as well, his tone relaxed, as if dismissing a familiar assistant. "Bring him in."
Only then did Sister Sela's raised hand lower. She inclined her head slightly."Yes, Lord Lynus."
She tightened her grip on the wheelchair handles once more. Lynus had already turned away, entering the room ahead of them. Sela pushed Erika forward, following him inside.
The door closed silently behind them.
The Room
At first glance, the interior looked almost identical to the pale room Erika had been kept in before:the same cream-colored walls,the same smooth flooring,the same evenly diffused overhead light from an unseen source.
But the difference made itself known quickly.
This room was larger. Much larger.Both its length and width far exceeded his previous cramped cell—so spacious it produced a faint sense of echo. And it was emptier. Aside from a few structurally simple, purpose-unknown metal-framed chairs standing alone in the center, and a row of cabinets with drawers and worktops lining one wall, there was almost nothing else.
No bed.No cart.No mirror.
The vast space carried a cold, sterile sense of disuse—and a latent pressure, as though it were waiting to be filled. To be used.
The air felt cooler as well, threaded with the faint hum of a large ventilation system running continuously.
This was neither a living space nor a ceremonial chamber.
Lynus had already walked to the center of the room. He turned, folding his arms, watching with relaxed composure as Sela maneuvered Erika's wheelchair into a designated position near the metal-framed chairs.
Sela steadied the wheelchair, checked the restraints once more, then stepped back two paces. Hands lowered, gaze downcast, she resumed the posture of a respectful, silent assistant.
Lynus's attention returned to Erika.
This time, the smile on his face grew more pronounced—tinged with unmistakable anticipation.
"Erika! Erika! Erika! Hahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Erika! … Erika!"
Without warning, Lynus burst into manic excitement.
Only moments ago, he had been relaxed, analytical, casually amused. Now it was as if a switch had been violently flipped. He shouted Erika's name over and over, his pitch swinging wildly—sometimes shrill and childlike, sometimes long and theatrical—punctuated by bursts of hysterical laughter.
His features contorted with every cry: eyes stretched wide, mouth pulled into an unnatural grin, eyebrows dancing erratically. His face twisted into something feverish and terrifying.
The sudden, illogical frenzy struck Erika like a physical blow.
His blood froze—then surged violently to his head. Every muscle in his body locked tight beneath the restraint garment before breaking into uncontrollable, violent trembling. His teeth chattered audibly. The wheelchair quivered beneath him.
He wanted to retreat.To escape.
But the restraints held him fast, pinning him in place. Each futile struggle only drove the straps deeper into his flesh, worsening the shaking. All he could manage were weak, broken gasps and whimpering sobs torn from his throat.
Lynus seemed either oblivious—or delighted.
Abruptly, he sprinted toward one of the pristine walls and, before Erika's horrified eyes, began slamming both hands against it with frenzied force.
"Faster! Be faster for me! Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
His voice rang with impatience and fervent urgency, as though something hidden behind the wall were deliberately dragging its feet.
The Wall
A miracle—or rather, a nightmare—occurred.
The smooth, seamless cream-colored wall, under the force of Lynus's relentless pounding, silently caved inward, revealing the outline of a rectangle. Then it slid apart cleanly to either side, exposing a hidden storage compartment glowing with cold white light.
Lynus's hands immediately changed purpose.
He began grabbing items from within with frantic urgency, movements quick and erratic, driven by a near-obsessive impatience. He tossed them behind him onto the floor without care:
Metal boxes of varying sizes fell with dull thuds.Rolls of dark, unfamiliar tape scattered across the tiles.Strangely shaped metal tools gleamed with a cold, threatening sheen.
Until—
He pulled out a bulging, worn sack, roughly stitched from coarse burlap.
The moment he saw it, Lynus's manic shouting stopped dead.
He froze. Lifted the sack gently with one hand. His chest heaved.
The wild fervor drained from his expression like a receding tide, replaced by an intense, almost greedy calm.
Turning his back to the open wall and the scattered tools, he faced Erika.
Throughout it all, Erika's heart hammered so violently it felt ready to burst. Every blow against the wall echoed inside his skull. Every manic shout shredded his already fragile nerves. The discarded tools fed limitless, terrifying speculation.
He couldn't endure it any longer.
In the grip of absolute fear and helplessness, his gaze slipped past Lynus to the silent figure of Sister Sela. Drawing on the last of his strength, he whispered a faint, tear-choked plea:
"Help me… Sela."
The words were nearly swallowed by the room's vastness—yet carried every ounce of his despair.
There was no response.
Sister Sela stood exactly where she was. Hands lowered. Head bowed slightly. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor before her feet. Her profile was utterly calm—as if she neither saw nor heard Lynus's madness, nor Erika's desperate plea.
She looked like a carefully sculpted statue of obedience, completely sealed off from the horror unfolding before her.
Even the last thread of hope turned to cold stone in the silence.
Erika went slack in the wheelchair. The violent trembling faded, replaced by a deeper chill that seeped straight into his bones.
All he could do was watch as Lynus, burlap sack in hand, approached step by step—his face wearing that same chilling calm.
What was inside the sack?Instruments of torture?Tools?Something worse?
Lynus stopped before the wheelchair. He looked down into Erika's unfocused, terror-glazed eyes. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved into a smile.
This time, there was no exaggerated ecstasy—only a pure, almost delighted anticipation.
"Don't be afraid," he said softly. His voice was gentle now, utterly unlike the earlier frenzy—and somehow far more terrifying."We're just going to… well. You'll feel it soon enough."
He gave the burlap sack a light shake.
From within came the faint, icy sound of metal brushing against metal.